Descent of Angels (12 page)

‘Something like that,’ agreed Amadis. ‘Now be quiet, we are about to begin.’

Zahariel turned his gaze to the eastern Cloister Gate as two lines of hooded banner bearers entered, their faces cloaked in shadow and their steps ponderous. They parted, with grim solemnity, as they reached the edge of the circle, and followed its circumference until they formed a ring of banners around the plinth.

Each banner was planted in a cup sunk into the floor, and the banner bearers knelt behind them, heads bowed as the masters of the Order entered.

The Lion and Luther marched into the chamber, resplendent in black plate and flowing white cloaks that hung from bronze pins at their shoulders. The Lion dwarfed Luther as always, but to Zahariel’s eyes, both were cut from the same magnificent cloth. The Lion’s expression was grim, while Luther’s was open, but Zahariel could see the tension etched in the tight lines around his eyes and jaw.

The knights of the Order gathered in the benches stood and banged their fists on their breastplates at the sight of their most heroic brothers, the noise deafening as each knight displayed the proper respect for his betters.

The senior knights of the Order accompanied the Lion and Luther, including Lord Cypher and several of the highest ranked battle knights, the warriors skilled in leading armies and marshalling great numbers of troops. It seemed this was to be more than a tacit display of strength, but a very real show of martial might.

A warrior in gleaming bronze plate armour and a long wolfskin cloak stood alongside Luther. The skull and upper jaw of the lupine beast was fashioned into the peak of the warrior’s helmet, its front paws draped over the pauldrons at his shoulders.

This then was Lord Sartana, a powerful man with age-weathered features and a drooping, silver moustache. His eyes were heavy lidded and grey, and his expression one of belligerence. He was clearly all too aware of the none-too-subtle display of the Order’s strength. A trio of wolf-cloaked warriors accompanied him, each with a similarly bushy moustache and each older than many of the most senior knights of the Order.

The warriors reached the centre of the circle, and the Lion raised his hands for silence, which was duly delivered. Zahariel spared an excited glance at Nemiel at the sight of so many senior knights in such proximity.

The Lion turned to Lord Sartana and extended his hand, ‘I welcome you to the Circle Chamber, where brother meets brother without rank or station, where all are equal. Welcome, brother.’

To Zahariel’s ears the words sounded flat and devoid of meaning, as though the Lion had swallowed the bitterest ashes to speak them.

Lord Sartana clearly thought so too and disdained to accept the proffered hand. ‘I asked for a private meeting, my Lord Jonson, not… this!’

‘The Order is a place of honesty, Lord Sartana,’ said Luther, his voice conciliatory and soothing. ‘We have no secrets, and wish to be transparent in our dealings with you.’

‘Then why these blatant theatrics?’ snapped Sartana. ‘You think I am some simpleton to be impressed by your parade of new recruits and senior knights?’

‘These are no theatrics,’ said the Lion, ‘they are reminders of your brotherhood’s status on Caliban.’

‘Our status?’ said Lord Sartana. ‘So you agreed to this meeting simply to humiliate me, is that it?’

Luther stepped between the two warriors, eager to defuse the hostile atmosphere before things degenerated to a point where weapons might be drawn.

‘My lords,’ said Luther, again modulating his voice to sound entirely reasonable and placating. ‘Such talk is beneath us. We are here so that all may witness the fairness and justice of our talk. It must be seen that there is no dishonesty between us.’

‘Then let us speak of how your warriors have violated the treaty between us,’ said Sartana.

‘Violated the treaty?’ snapped the Lion. ‘What treaty? There was no treaty.’

‘Assurances were given many years ago,’ said Sartana, ‘by you, Luther. When you journeyed to our fortress, you claimed that Jonson gave an iron assurance that he would keep his warriors away from the Northwilds. As we both know, that has not been the case.’

‘No,’ said the Lion, an edge of anger entering his voice, ‘it has not.’ Zahariel wondered that any man could stand before such a threat. ‘Your men slaughtered a group of our hunters. Men with families were killed by fully armed knights, who sent a lone survivor back with the butchered bodies of his comrades.’

‘Those men had come to map the valleys on the edge of the Northwilds.’

‘The edges of your territories are home to beasts!’ said the Lion. ‘Beasts that still ravage our lands. The town of Endriago alone has suffered nearly two hundred dead at the hands of a beast! The time has come to finish the job and destroy the last of the great beasts.’

At the mention of Endriago, Zahariel felt Brother Amadis stiffen his stance, and saw that his hands had drawn into clenched fists.

‘
You
might clear the great beasts from the rest of Caliban,’ said Sartana, ‘but the Northwilds, and the lands of the Knights of Lupus were to be sacrosanct. We were promised that our lands would be a haven, and that the beasts there would be left in peace. This agreement had the force of a treaty. By sending your warriors into our lands you are an oath breaker!’

‘Talk sense, man,’ said the Lion. ‘There was never any assurance made about leaving the Northwilds alone. What kind of sense would it make for us to do so? What would be the virtue of slaying the beasts everywhere else on Caliban, only to leave a pocket of the creatures still remaining? No, if there was any violation, it was by the Knights of Lupus when they killed the Order’s warriors. All the rest of it, these falsehoods and lies, are simply a flimsy pretext to justify your actions.’

‘Then you set the stage for war, Lord Jonson,’ said Sartana.

‘If that is what it takes to free Caliban of the beasts, then I do, Lord Sartana,’ said the Lion, and Zahariel could hear a fierce relish in his tone, as though goading Sartana into a war had been his intention all along.

‘I will not stop in the pursuit of my goal of ridding Caliban of the beasts,’ said the Lion, ‘and if your warriors try to stop me, it will be the end of them. Your order has fewer warriors and most have not set foot from your libraries in years. Do you really think you can stop me?’

‘Probably not,’ admitted Sartana.

‘Then why stand against me?’

‘Because in your monomaniacal quest to destroy, you will not be satisfied until you have all Caliban under your heel,’ said Lord Sartana. ‘The Knights of Lupus do not wish to be subject to your decrees. Now if this farce of a “discussion” is at an end, I will take my leave and return to my brethren.’

Without waiting for any dismissal, Lord Sartana turned on his heel and marched from the Circle Chamber, his wolf-cloaked acolytes following him.

A thunderous silence fell on the assembled knights of the Order at such audacity, each warrior looking to his neighbour as if to confirm that they understood the import of the words that had passed between the Lion and Lord Sartana, that they were as good as at war with the Brotherhood of Lupus.

Brother Amadis broke the silence, stepping from his position at the edge of the circle and calling out to the Lion.

‘My Lord Jonson!’ cried Amadis. ‘Is it true? Is Endriago attacked by a beast?’

At first, Zahariel wondered if the Lion had heard the question, for long moments passed before he turned to face Amadis. His face was set in stone, and Zahariel felt a shudder of fear pass along his spine at the look of warlike fury etched into his features.

Then, as though a ray of sunlight passed over his face, the vengeful anger was gone, and a look of deep concern took its place.

‘Brother Amadis,’ said the Lion, ‘I’m afraid it is true. Word reached us only yesterday. A beast has slain a great many of Endriago’s people, though no one knows yet what manner of creature stalks the dark forest.’

‘Endriago is the place of my birth, Lord Jonson,’ said Amadis. ‘I must avenge the deaths it has caused to my people.’

The Lion nodded and listened to Luther’s whispered comment, as Amadis dropped to one knee.

‘My Lord Jonson,’ said Amadis, ‘I declare a quest against the Beast of Endriago.’

A
FTERWARDS
, Z
AHARIEL WOULD
always think of it as his finest moment. It was not that the years that followed would be short on glories, far from it. He would win his share of battles. He would be acclaimed and lauded by his fellows.

He would be honoured by the Lion.

He would know all these things and more. Yet, somehow, the moment he cherished most occurred on his homeworld of Caliban in the days before the Emperor came to their planet.

It was in the time before angels, in a time when he had been a young man on the verge of adulthood. Perhaps his age would play a part in making the recollection of those days more vivid in his mind later.

At the time, he had been just two weeks shy of his fifteenth birthday. The fact of his youth would add an extra gloss of glamour to his reminiscences. It would make his achievement seem more worthy somehow, more memorable. With his first step over the threshold of manhood, he had braved horrors and endured hardships that most men could never, nor would ever, survive.

One element would certainly set this moment apart from his later triumphs. He had not yet been made an angel. He had not yet become Astartes. It would make what happened all the more remarkable. It was one thing for a superhuman to succeed in such circumstances, it was quite another for an ordinary human being to do so, especially one who was only halfway through his teens.

Perhaps it was something else.

Perhaps, in the end, he would treasure the moment simply because it spoke well of his character. After his transformation into an angel, most of his memories of the days when he was still a man would become dull and hazy.

There were thousands of moments, important ones, he would forget altogether. He would have difficulty remembering the faces of his parents, his sisters, the friends of his childhood. The only matters fixed in his mind would be those relating to his time among the angels, as though in crossing the bridge from human to superhuman he had said goodbye forever to many of the things that had defined his earlier, human life.

Whatever the case, the memory would burn brightly in his mind throughout his days. He would keep it with him, through the centuries, as one of the few significant remembrances left to him from the time of his youth.

It would alter the course of his years in subtle ways, for it would help him remain true to his ideals. It would sustain him when every other hope was gone. He would always see it as one of the defining moments of his existence.

It was the beginning of his sense of himself, the seed-story of his personal myth.

It said these things to him. Once, he had been a man. Once, he had been a knight. Once, he had fought the good fight and protected the innocent.

Once upon a time, he had hunted monsters.

A
LMOST FIVE MONTHS
had passed since Brother Amadis had set out on his quest to destroy the Beast of Endriago, and the time had dragged like a lead weight upon Zahariel. He missed the easy camaraderie of his hero and the sense that his worth and presence were valued and appreciated within the Order.

Though Master Ramiel was a teacher of great skill and wisdom, he treated Zahariel just like any other supplicant, which was how it should be, but after being singled out by Brother Amadis, he found it hard to adjust to being… ordinary.

Without the presence of Brother Amadis, the games of one-upmanship had resumed, with Zahariel, Nemiel, Attias and Eliath squabbling like young novices once more.

Zahariel had tried to keep Nemiel’s desire to best him at everything from annoying him, but try as he might, his cousin’s constant, niggling attempts to undermine him began to ossify into a core of resentment in his heart.

Since Lord Sartana’s visit to Aldurukh, a significant proportion of the Order’s strength had been diverted from the final stages of the campaign against the great beasts towards the conflict with this new enemy.

In a series of decisive engagements, the Knights of Lupus had been driven back to their fortress at Sangrula – Blood Mountain – which, according to wild rumours flying through the fortress monastery, was now under siege.

The boys had gathered over their afternoon meal to discuss the state of the war against the Knights of Lupus, and to bemoan their status as supplicants and hence their exclusion from the fighting.

‘I heard it said that they’ve started burning their own settlements so as not to let the Order’s knights capture them,’ said Eliath.

‘That’s true,’ said Attias. ‘I heard Master Ramiel say that to Sar Hadariel yesterday.’

‘Why would they do something like that?’ asked Nemiel. ‘That’s just stupid.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Attias. ‘It’s just what I heard.’

‘Perhaps because they’ve proved by their actions that they’re no more than treacherous turncoats and every moment of their continued existence is a stain on Caliban’s honour.’

‘That’s a bit of a harsh assessment, isn’t it?’ said Zahariel.

‘Is it?’ said Nemiel. ‘Then how come the Order has taken up the task of ending their existence?’

‘Has anyone stopped to think that maybe, just maybe, Lord Sartana was speaking the truth?’ asked Zahariel. ‘That maybe we did break our word to leave their lands alone?’

‘It crossed my mind,’ said Nemiel, ‘but what does it really matter now?’

‘What does it matter?’ repeated Zahariel. ‘It matters because we may be about to fight a war under false pretences, that we engineered this war to serve our own ends? Doesn’t that concern any of you?’

Blank faces gave him his answer, and he shook his head at their acceptance.

Nemiel leaned over the table and said, ‘History is written by the victors, Zahariel, and among the many bitter pills the losing side must swallow in any war is the fact that their sacrifices were all for nothing. Sartana’s claims about the Lion may well have been scurrilous, even outright fantasy, but the Order’s chroniclers were never likely to record them even if they were truth, were they?’